Yolane
by Starchild524
Summary: Yolane, newly settled in the dungeons of Corus, makes an uncanny new acquaintance.


Author's Note: this idea's been playing around in my head since way back when, but it wasn't until tonight, perversely, that I actually got around to writing it down. Nothing ambitious - a one-shot, and I don't think it came out particularly elegant. May revise in the future, if it seems worth it. Anyway, I was thinking about parallels in Yolane and Delia's stories. Re-ignited (no pun intended) by Pokkie's beautiful response to Seanfhocal challenge 18. Will not turn into any SFF fest. 

Yolane, Delia and the premise of Tortall are sole creation and property of Tamora Pierce, goddess of feminist fantasy. Stolen by yours truly. No suing. 

~~~~~

"But, Sir -" Yolane's protest was cut off in a gasp as her captor jerked her roughly after him. _"Guard_ - please, sir, wait -"

The guard was clearly in no mood to do so. Dressed in monotonous brown livery, face set in an equally inexpressive mask, he was as industrial in appearance and manner as his task. And he was now "escorting" the former Lady of Dunlath down a long and forbidding stone corridor lined with coarse torches that cast the place in ominous, flickering shadows. 

Yolane had all but given up on her supplications. Despite her most dignified glare, her most alluring smile, she had already been subjected to every imaginable indignity since that scruffy girl had hunted Yolane down with those brutes of hers. She had signed a number of papers cementing her official guilt of treason, ceding the fief to her younger half-sister, and denouncing all titles and privileges. She had been stripped, "examined" by the palace jailer who scribbled her answers on a ledger, and forced into a filthy burlap dress - if it could be called that - that her scullery maid back home would have blushed to wear. She had not bathed, brushed her hair, or eaten a decent meal for over a week. And now, having left the relative civilization of the interrogation chamber, she was being dragged through the gritty dungeon passageways to what she could expect to be her home for the foreseeable future. 

"Sir, please, just let me talk to the governor," she tried again, this time with a hint of a purr. "Surely there can be another appeal." 

The guard stopped abruptly, again jerking Yolane to an ungentle halt. They were standing in front of an iron-and-wood grill that covered the foulest hole, lined with dirt and mold, that noble eyes had ever touched. With a significant look at Yolane, the guard pulled a ring of keys from his belt and began unlocking the cell. 

She stared at the confinement in horror. "Sure this can't be where you expect me to -"

He took firm hold of her arm, causing her to choke on the rest of her words. "Aye, milady, this is it. This is home." With a brutal grin, he shoved her inside, and pulled the door shut with a clang that resounded down the endless stone hallway. 

Yolane clung to the bars. "You can't do this. You have no right. I am Lady Yolane of Dunlath, loyal vassal to the King!" 

The guard was now showing a distinct look of snide pity, which in a way was a relief after his stoic manhandling. "You're no lady now, Lady Yolane. And there's not much you can do to improve your situation, so I'd advise you get accustomed to it." He drew away and winked coldly at her. "Sweet dreams, lovely." 

Yolane gasped in fury. "Guard. _Guard! _Stop!" Her voice stretched out thin with desperation, and finally cracked. The burly man vanished around a corner. 

Yolane found herself quite alone in the near-darkness lit by scraps of light from a distant torch, and no noise but the revolting drip of moisture somewhere down the hall. Slowly, she turned to examine her new dwelling. It was rough-hewn stone like the rest of the dungeons, the floor black with filth and mold. The place harbored smells that had never before abused her nose, and already a damp chill sank into her skin. Shivering with as much disgust as cold, Yolane made her way over to the heap of straw that apparently served as her bed and sat down. She had to keep her head; it would do no good to submit to the humiliation they were trying to force on her. She cast about for influential relatives, friends who would prove her merit and get her out of here - surely it wouldn't be long. 

She heard a horrible scrabbling on the floor to her right, and something with coarse fur and little claws latched onto her ankle, making little snuffling noises. Panic roared through her mind like a flash flood, and Yolane shrieked and kicked wildly as the vermin tried to climb up her leg. Flailing, her head bumped into the stone wall behind her; she pushed herself against it desperately to escape the monster in her cell. Grabbing at her feet and legs, after a moment she was fairly sure the thing was gone, but it was some time before the panic released her and the imaginary crawling left her skin. She huddled miserably against the cell wall, clutching herself. 

Finally her horror was replaced by a pungent disgust - with herself, the man she'd once called King, with the world. Here she was Yolane of Dunlath, who'd been born with all she could hope for. But no, she couldn't be _happy_ with the richest fief in northern Tortall and a husband who didn't mind that she was more interested in a handsome mage from Carthak than in him, she had to be greedy and conspire for the throne like some stupid, warty old madman, some cloying courtesan! In a fury she hurled a fistful of straw at her cell at large. It scattered on the floor. 

A tear crawled down her cheek, and then another, and before she knew it she was sobbing like an animal. She had lost everything, every hope of a life without shame; she had gambled at huge stakes lost, plunging down to the muddy depths where she had dreamed of soaring above the clouds. How could this have happened? It was all Tristan's fault; he had promised her success in their venture and been too foolish to consider the enemy's advantages. He had won her over, covered over her mind with his kisses and oily words. He had made a fool of her, stained her family name forever. And now here she was, alone, with no one left even to blame. She was ashamed even at admitting her shame, and wept harder and harder, splayed out on the dirty straw. Finally she lay spent, staring numbly at the cold walls of her prison. 

"Psst - you." 

Yolane's head jerked up; there was no one standing in the hallway outside her cell. 

"Over here. The wall on your right, three blocks from the bottom." The voice was harsh, raspy, barely recognizable as female. 

Yolane moved toward the source of the sound and knelt, searching the wall with her fingers more than her eyes. They sank into a crevice, and she leaned to peer through. 

The glint of a pair of eyes greeted her from the other side of the wall. Not much to look at; surprisingly green eyes, but lax and empty, set in a sunken, pale face with dark cords of hair falling over it. These green eyes eagerly latched on to Yolane's face; she suspected their owner had not had a human companion for a long, long time. 

"You're new," the voice scratched again, and a spark of mirth entered the green eyes. "Good to have company here." 

"Who are you?" Yolane demanded, her own voice thick with crying. 

A painful noise from the adjacent cell sounded vaguely like a laugh. "My name is Delia. But I haven't been anyone for a long time now." 

"Eldorne?" Yolane said hesitantly. 

There was a pause which she interpreted as assent. "All of Tortall knows my story," said the Eldorne woman. "So - why are _you_ here?" 

Yolane pulled away from the crevice and sat with her back against the wall separating them. "You wouldn't understand," she said dully. 

Another croak-laugh from the chink in the wall. "Try me," Delia suggested. "But no hurry - we've got all the time in the world." 


End file.
